The Minotauress

"And then-then-then—she got's ta playin' with her pussy a mite fierce, and when she got herself off, she-she-she—"

"She what?"

Dicky's eyes bloomed. "She ‘jacker-lated... "

"The fuck!"

"I'se swear, Balls! While's she were comin', her pussy was squirtin' out a bunch-a goo—"

"Goo?" Balls infuriated.

"No lie. She come just like a fella, only with her cooze. Squirted a giant nut out on the carpet—there's a big puddle of it."

"A puddle of what?"

Dicky fidgeted. "Well, it looked like all'a my cum mixed up with a bunch of this black... goo."

Balls frowned harder. The Writer thought: This is some high-brow crew.

"Writer? Balls stood with his arms crossed. "Git upstairs'n see what the hail Dicky's talkin' 'bout. Shee-it. This here is gettin' blammed ree-dicker-luss."

"Oh! Oh!" Dicky exclaimed. "She tolt me her name!"

"Yeah?" Balls challenged. "Lemme guess. Everclear?"

"Her name's... Pasiphae," Dicky blurted.

"Pasiphae, huh? You're more fucked up than that meth-whore with the hairy armpits." Balls' glare dug into the Writer. "Git on up there ‘fore I start carvin' me some college-ed-jur-kated cold cuts."

But the Writer had been taken aback. By the name Dicky had mentioned:

Pasiphae.

"Go on!" Balls' knife snapped open. "Git!"

"As you wish, Mr. Balls," and with that the Writer mounted the steps.

Pasiphae, he thought, climbing. Greek mythology. He thought briefly of Nancy's phone conversation earlier, the mentioning of a dream-baby with a bull's head.

But why would a rube like Dicky make such a reference?

The Writer couldn't hypothesize.

His hand slid up the bannister as he moved toward the second-floor landing, the darkness seeming to magnify as he ascended. On his palm he felt odd but regular bumps in the vanished wood, and when he shined his flashlight, he frowned, noticing triplets of sixes finely engraved. Lucifer's cliché, he thought. The first thing he noted upstairs was an exquisite oil painting, tinged by age and very Rembrandtesque in its style: horned demons with skin spotted like slugs pushing aside the boulder which sealed Christ's tomb on Golgotha, as peasants moaned. Yeah, Crafter's really got the occult bug. The Writer found it amusing. The only supernaturalism that truly exists is math, he knew. But Crafter's trite fanaticism notwithstanding, the Writer found it uncanny how the man could fill the disguised house with priceless antiques, busts, and art but not have a single bookshelf in view. Crafter was a cliché in and of himself; surely an "occultist"—especially one with money—would have a veritable library full of pricy occult tomes.

Yet he'd seen none since they'd entered the house.

Perhaps upstairs...

The first bedroom he slipped into was obviously the one where Dicky had experienced his calamity. The flashlight revealed a bed chamber that went hand in hand with the rest of the house: a mini-museum of various archaic styles, save of course for the television sitting upon—the Writer winced—a genuine Robert Gillow half-table made of Brazilian rosewood and well over three hundred years old. I wonder where Crafter gets all his money? but then he laughed. Probably a pact with the Devil.

The room smelled funny: a meaty, musky scent that was close to foul. No woman in black paint lay on the bed, though the sheets and blankets on the finely crafted poster were disarrayed. Then he shined the flash down to the fabulous hand-woven carpet and was surprised to discover Dicky's aforementioned "goo."

It looked like black gelatin surrounded by another gel-like substance that was clear but milkily lined. The Writer was mystified. Alcohol or cerebral defect obviously accounted for the younger man's account of this woman's ejaculating after her intercourse with him. Nevertheless...

What on earth could this substance be?

It lay in a gelatinous puddle, shimmering in the light.

Finally! A book! Another sweep of the flash revealed a night-table with a small book on it. The Writer scanned the cover, intrigued: THE ACCOUNT OF THE INCUBI OF VASR MONASTERY BY THE REV. M. BARI. The spine crinkled when he opened to the copyright page. London, 1787.

"Incubi, huh?" the Writer mocked aloud.

Nevertheless he stuck the book in his back pocket. It was probably worth some money...

Nothing here except some crap on the floor, some... goo, he deduced and turned to leave, but he stopped at the door as his light raked the carpet.

He shined it down and stared.

How peculiar...